


Darling Angel, Temper the Devil Within

by sp8sexual



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, my dumpster baby finds a dumpster baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp8sexual/pseuds/sp8sexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's three day old pizza sauce smeared through Matt's hair from the pizza box he is—<em>apparently</em>—using as a makeshift pillow. He can feel the grime building on his skin. Filth coats his nose, his throat, his lungs. The air tastes like polluted rainwater, the metallic tang of blood, the beginning stages of decay. He gags.</p><p>And then he hears it.</p><p>Lost in his own thoughts, in the overload of information coming from all of his senses, he almost misses it.</p><p>A soft, weak little cry. A pathetic noise, really.</p><p>And he shifts, and listens closely, and realizes it's a <em>baby</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling Angel, Temper the Devil Within

**Author's Note:**

> A few things:  
> 1) I have no idea if blood loss can result in vomit, I mean probably not, but this is fanfic, no one is here for medical accuracy.  
> 2) All the suggested names are literally names I found on the internet. I made up none of them. NONE.  
> 3) I remembered that Child Protective Services is a thing pretty late into writing this, and also I did not research any of it, but, once again, no one is really here for real life accuracy.
> 
> I wrote this even though I have another fic I should've been working on. Oops? Oh well. Please enjoy.

The cool night stings at Matt's skin, biting; the wind is harsh, whipping, leaving Matt gasping, scrambling to push past pain, to focus. A fist connects with his mouth, hard, and blood fills his mouth, teeth tearing through the soft flesh of his lips. Matt staggers back, spitting out the blood—his own, but also his attacker's. Matt knows the taste of his own blood.

 _Bloody knuckles_.

Matt's exhausted, dizzy from blood-loss; but his attacker is tiring as well, Matt can hear it in the ragged breathing, slow movements. Matt throws a punch, which connects, but not at the angle he had hoped, not with as much force as he needed. He exhales, sharp. Frustrated. He takes a punch to his chest. Air is forced from his lungs, but it gives him a chance to land another hit. Harder this time. He hears bone crunch under his fist, feels the give of it. The assailant staggers, and Matt moves in to give the last, devastating blow. A boot connects squarely with his chest— _shitty_ , right after having his breath _punched_ out of him—and he stumbles.

He can hear blood dripping, landing against the concrete of the roof. Pained gasps fill the air, sharp and stabbing.

It's anyone's round.

It's Matt's match.

A smile curves the corners of his lips. He straightens, standing tall and dangerous. He hears his assailant's heartbeat pick up. He approaches, swift and deadly, and his opponent falls, head meeting concrete with a truly satisfying sound.

His movements are graceful and liquid, like a predatory cat prowling, but he's lost a lot of blood, and the wind is still cold and sharp, and the metallic tang in the air, on his tongue, is overwhelming and disorienting. He staggers backwards, unsure of his footing and unbalanced. Tripping, he finds the edge of the building. Bad luck has him falling over the edge. His heart is in his throat; his lungs are still on the roof, beaten and bruised; his body is not his, and suddenly falling feels a lot like flying.

He has three thoughts before his world goes black:

 _Shit_.

 _Foggy's going to kill me_.

 _It's going to rain_.  


* * *

  
Matt was right. Rain is coming down in sheets. It's like static.

Matt can feel an electrical charge in the air. A large storm is on the way.  
  
Matt is bleeding. He thinks it may have slowed, now that he wasn't moving. He doesn't know.  
  
Everything is static and fuzzy. He doesn't know where he is.  
  
If he doesn't die here, Foggy is definitely going to kill him.  
  
Exhaustion overtakes him, and Matt passes out once more.  


* * *

  
Matt comes to, and immediately wishes he hadn't. Everything hurts. The air is damp enough that it feels like he might drown.

It's still raining.  
  
He toys with the idea of calling Claire—lets it go before he can really think about it. She shouldn't have to drag him out of a dumpster, _again_.

She shouldn't have had to drag him out of a dumpster the first time.  
  
(And now he knows he's in a dumpster; the smell is unmistakeable even without enhanced senses.)  
  
He considers calling Foggy. _Just bite the bullet_. Foggy is going to be pissed, but it'll be worse if Matt lets himself bleed out in a _dumpster_ , of all places. God forbid, if he dies here.

 _Here Lies Matthew Murdock._  
_He Died in a Dumpster_.

Fitting.  
  
Matt chuckles, but it's weak, and jostles his injuries. He winces.  
  
Not Foggy, then.  
  
Matt just hopes they don't both find out. Or, at least, not at the same time.

(It's inevitable that they'll both learn what happened. But Matt is bleeding out in a dumpster—which feels like a pretty good summary of his life, if he's being honest—and he's _exhausted_ , and there is no way he'll be able to handle it if they're both yelling at him. Because then Claire will sigh that sigh that means she's beyond exhausted, like constantly patching Matt up is wearing on her very spirit. And Foggy will go quiet and worried, and Matt hates it.)

There's three day old pizza sauce smeared through Matt's hair from the pizza box he is— _apparently_ —using as a makeshift pillow. He can feel the grime building on his skin. Filth coats his nose, his throat, his lungs. The air tastes like polluted rainwater, the metallic tang of blood, the beginning stages of decay. He gags.

And then he hears it.

Lost in his own thoughts, in the overload of information coming from all of his senses, he almost misses it.

A soft, weak little cry. A pathetic noise, really.

And he shifts, and listens closely, and realizes it's a _baby_.

It takes him a moment to process, before he realizes the baby is _in the dumpster_. And he wonders how he didn't catch it sooner, but isn't all that surprised. His head is still swimming, and the rain is pouring, and the baby's heartbeat is so weak, and its cries are so weak, and its breathing is shallow, and the smell of baby is smothered out by the overpowering stench of rotting garbage.

Matt is _furious_.

He gathers up what energy he has left—not much, but he's given an extra push in the form of pure rage flooding through his veins, because how _dare_ someone leave their infant in a _dumpster_.

And he gathers the baby up in his arms and climbs out of the peaceful sanctuary of the dumpster.

He decides going to Claire's would be best—she can check the baby, make sure the baby is okay.  
  
He has to be careful getting there. The red suit is a bit ostentatious, it doesn't blend into the night as well as his black outfit had. He can't exactly go jumping from rooftop to rooftop, flipping his way across the city, with a baby.  
  
He sticks to back alleys and deserted streets—all the dark corners and paths Hell's Kitchen has to offer.  
  
His breathing is ragged, pained. His steps are staggering. Against his chest, he can hear the baby snuffling, distressed. He tries to soothe the baby as he navigates through the city, pushing through his discomfort.

 

He manages to make it to Claire’s front door through pure stubbornness. He manages to make it past her front door, hand the baby over, gently, and ask her to call Foggy before he collapses.  


* * *

  
Foggy and Claire are _furious_.

They’re both standing over the couch—they must have moved him, somehow, while he was out—scolding him. But, they’re keeping their voices down. The baby is asleep, breathing slow and steady and deep, curled up in Foggy’s arms.

Claire had given him painkillers—he can tell from the way everything seems a bit fuzzy. Not _blood-loss_ fuzzy but _chemical, fake_ fuzzy. They barely touched Matt’s pain.

Matt can’t concentrate on their words.

But, not because of the pain or the painkillers.

All he can focus on is the scent of Foggy and the baby together, their smells mixing, and how knee-jerkingly _right_ it is. It tugs at something in his stomach, and he thinks he might puke.

Then he does.

(It turns out blood-loss results in vomit—thank the Lord it was not an actual physical reaction to Foggy with a baby, because how embarrassing would _that_ be.)

Claire gives him water. He sips at in under her stern, watchful gaze. It was no wonder she was considered the hospital's best nurse—no one would dare go against her orders, with a look like that.

Matt manages to keep it down, and only then do Foggy and Claire demand to know where he found the baby.

(Their heartbeats were already fast with fury and concern, but the way their heart rates picked up, ever-so-slightly, with nerves told Matt that they suspected. It wasn't that hard to guess, but Matt knew they wanted to deny it. Did not want it confirmed.)

"I found him in a dumpster," Matt says, leaving out the part where he, too, was in the same dumpster.

"Her," Foggy corrects absently, horrified, "found her in a _dumpster, Jesus_."

"Her," Matt repeats softly, reverently. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "How is she?"

Foggy moves automatically, carefully helping Matt sit up and lowering the baby into Matt's arms. Matt handles her preciously, like she's made of gold and glass. His arm is broken, and he shouldn't be upright, but none of that matters when he has this little girl cradled against his chest.

"Fine," Claire says, mechanically. Exhausted, both physically and mentally. "If a bit dehydrated and hungry."

Matt runs gentle fingers over the baby as he Claire speaks, as if to verify her diagnosis himself. He delicately grazes a finger over the baby's lips, and they part. Matt feels small puffs of her breath against his fingertips.

Matt can feel the Devil clawing to get out, he can feel it under his skin, pressing, pushing to get out. His fingers twitched, desperate to curl into a fist, tight and unyielding. Tight enough that his nails press into the skin of his palm, break through, draw blood. It made his skin itch to think someone would hurt something so pure, so innocent. Made him long for the slip of slick blood under his fist, the taste of it on his tongue, the crunch and grind of bone.  
  
The baby makes a little, soft, sleepy noise, and Matt's senses all automatically zero in on her; she becomes, literally, his whole world for a moment.  
  
Foggy takes the baby back, because Matt needs to rest, and the baby needs to rest, and Claire needs to rest, because she has work in the morning, and she just got off a late shift, and she loves Matt but she never asked for any of this. So, she goes to bed, and Matt lays back down on the couch, and Foggy promises him that he’ll still be there in the morning, and settles in for a long night sitting up with the baby in his arms, watching over Matt. And Matt knows Foggy’s not going to get a wink of sleep, knows that Foggy is far too worried and high strung to relax.

 

The next morning, Foggy makes breakfast, and Claire makes coffee, and they sit quietly together and eat. Matt continues to sleep, and the baby, in Foggy’s arms, continues to sleep. Foggy calls in sick for Matt, promising Karen he’ll be in later, himself. Claire invites them to stay as long as they need as she leaves, asking only that they lock up on their way out.

The baby wakes up crying terrified, gasping cries, and Matt’s awake instantly, before Foggy even has a chance to start calming her down, bolting upright and nearly tearing a stitch. Foggy calms him down, and calms the baby down, simultaneously, with gentle, soothing words, his voice washing over them like a cool breeze, a balm.

Matt focuses on Foggy’s heartbeat, and the baby’s evening breaths, and starts pulling on the spare sweats and jacket that Foggy brought over for him, and starts saying that maybe they should leave, that they don’t want to overstay their welcome. Foggy just tells him, firmly, that there’s time for breakfast and, now that Matt's awake, Foggy can run down to the corner store and pick up some diapers.

Foggy had brought over some supplies the night before, Matt knew. He could smell the powdered formula and that distinctly sterile-paper-y smell of diapers.

"It wasn't enough," Foggy says, seeing the question on Matt's face, "this little angel has been wrapped in a spare t-shirt all night. And we're going to be needing a lot more, if you're planning on keeping her."

Matt's surprise must show on his face, because Foggy laughs. Without further explanation, and before Matt can ask, Foggy hands the baby off to Matt, and leaves with the promise of returning with supplies, leaving Matt to care for this small, breakable thing. And Matt’s actually amazed, overwhelmed by how delicate, how fragile she is. And how tough she is, to have survived what she has been through already. And Matt knows without a doubt that this little girl will go so far in life, that nothing will be able to stop her.

(That is, if he can figure out what one can and cannot feed a newborn, because she has to be six-weeks-old tops, and Matt isn’t good at gentle, isn’t good at soft, no matter how much he tries—and, God, does he try—he excels at problems that can be solved with sweat and blood and fights, not gentle words and gentle hands.)

 

When Foggy comes back, both the baby and Matt are frustrated with each other, but they both look so stubbornly determined that Foggy can’t help but laugh. Matt pouts and huffs at him and tells him that it's not his fault, he doesn’t have any experience with babies, and the baby just reaches up and pats at his face (much stronger than Matt thought possible from a baby) to get his attention because she is not done with him yet, and Foggy is laughing again.

Matt can hear Foggy slipping out of his jacket, fabric brushing over fabric, and pulling things out of a plastic bag. The baby reaches up and tugs at Matt's lower lip as Matt listens to the tap turning on, water rushing, hitting plastic and the metal of this sink. Small fingers push into Matt's mouth as he hears the shift of scooped powder and plastic crinkling. By the time the microwave beeps, there is an entire hand in Matt's mouth, and he's not totally sure how it happened.

"Here," Foggy presses a warm bottle in Matt's hand that smells strongly of dish soap and baby formula, "you might have more luck with this."

Matt gets the baby fed, and himself fed, and they’re both a mess of egg and baby formula, but their tummies are full and Foggy’s promised to bathe the baby while Matt cleans himself off. When Matt emerges from the bathroom, he’s greeted with a freshly cleaned and clothed infant, who smells overwhelmingly like baby shampoo and baby powder, but it's so comforting, and he can’t help but smile.

Foggy hums happily, like he knows how much of a sap Matt is (and he does, because now they have no secrets between them; they never really did, because despite Matt not telling Foggy of his senses and his nightly activities. It's not like he could ever truly hide something from Foggy. And it took Matt forever to convince Foggy that there weren’t any more secrets, because trust is fragile, too, just like the baby between them, easily broken and not easy to put back together, but Matt was an open book to Foggy that Foggy could read perfectly, always had been. And once Foggy saw that, they were able to move forward). And he tells Matt that Karen is not expecting him today, but Foggy does have to go in.  
  
"You better get some rest," Foggy says, and it's lighthearted, but there's also an underlying threat to his tone, "I will know if you don't, Murdock."

Matt relents easily. A day off gives him a chance to spend time with the baby, to familiarize himself to everything about her, to start to get to know her anywhere near as well as he knows Foggy.  


* * *

  
Karen ends up at his apartment after work, because Foggy can’t keep a secret about a baby, obviously, and Matt is overtaken by the realization that the baby is just so _content_ to be in Foggy’s arms. Foggy had scooped her up as soon as he entered Matt's apartment, and it was like her very _soul_ relaxed once she was back in Foggy’s arms. Matt thinks this should make him jealous (though he doesn’t know why, because he _just_ found this little girl, he shouldn’t be so attached yet), but he finds that he’s not, because there's something so right about it, about Foggy with a baby Matt already loves so dearly. And Matt only then realizes that he’s desperately in love with Foggy.  
  
In that moment, everything becomes clear.  
  
Matt’s startled out of his thoughts by the sharp, happy sound of the baby laughing, _giggling_ , and this is the first time he’s heard her laugh. And Karen’s laughing and Foggy is too, because this baby’s joy is contagious, and Matt is surrounded by happiness, and he can _feel_ it, seeping into his skin, into his bones.  
  
He doesn't realize that Foggy is just as taken with this baby, feels the same protectiveness and love for her that Matt himself does. At least, not until later, after Karen's left, when Foggy’s rummaging for his spare set of sweats (because of course Foggy’s got spare clothes over at Matt's—he even has a suit hung up in the closet for days when they’re drinking and laughing and it's the middle of the week and they have work in the morning, but that's a problem for then not now) and is demanding Matt break out the extra blanket and pillow because he’s spending the night. And Matt does go (mostly to get out of Foggy’s line of sight, because he can feel the blush creeping up his neck).  
  
They don't go to bed right away. Instead, they end up sitting on the couch, the baby in Matt's lap, because he likes her warmth, her weight, and Matt leaned up against Foggy. A movie is playing without the audio description because Foggy insisted he could describe it _perfectly_ (he made up his own story to go with the outrageous dialogue, that had Matt absolutely convulsing with laughter, having to hand the baby off as Foggy grinned) and everything is sleepy and perfect.

  
They both wake up the next day to realize that they had both fallen asleep on the couch, awkwardly on top of each other while the baby rested comfortably against their chests.  
  
Matt is sleepy and incoherent, and Foggy leaves him on the couch with the baby to go make coffee, yawningly telling Matt that he can’t get out of a second day of work, because they have a case, and they need _some_ sort of income.  
  
"But you're staying at your desk, today," Foggy says sternly. "No darting off to save the day." He walks back over to Matt, who is sitting up with the baby, quietly gurgling would-be words to herself, cradled in his arms. "And, hey, maybe we can even pick up a crib on our way home." Foggy trades the baby for a cup of coffee, dropping a kiss to the top of Matt's head, before doing the same, murmuring a soft, "Good morning, angel."  
  
Neither of them realize of the misstep of the gesture.  
  
Foggy carries the baby to Matt's kitchen, humming happily to her. She giggles in reply, her hands slapping Foggy's chest in excitement. Matt listens to them, listens to Foggy offering the baby a bottle, listens to the baby eagerly, greedily sucking down the formula. His eyes slip closed, and a content smile tugs at the corners of his lips.  
  
"You better not be falling back asleep," Foggy calls from the kitchen, and Matt laughs.  
  
He stands from the couch, easily navigating his way through his apartment, calling over his shoulder to Foggy that he's going to get dressed.  
  
In the shower, Matt listens to Foggy's heartbeat, the baby's heartbeat, their happy conversation—a string of cheerful but overall meaningless words from Foggy, the baby replying with excited squeals or delighted gurgles. The rushing water does nothing to muffle the sounds from the living room, and Matt basks in the feeling of contentedness that spreads through him.  
  
_I'm in love with him._  
  
The thought brings everything crashing down around Matt. It had been a fleeting thought the night before; something that felt like a puzzle piece slipping into place. Something in the world finally aligning perfectly, clicking together. It wasn't something he had thought about too long, because it had felt natural. At the time, listening to the sounds of Karen, and Foggy, and the baby, it had seemed insignificant beyond the moment of _rightness_ and _clarity_.  
  
Now, though, Matt is feeling the weight of the realization.  
  
Foggy is his best friend, had been since college, and after everything they've been through—Matt isn't actually sure if this is _moving forward_ or something that would leave their relationship in smouldering ashes. Foggy's friendship means more to Matt than he can express, if these feelings ended that friendship, it would destroy Matt. But, if Foggy returned those feelings, it could mean a happiness, a sense of family, _something_ Matt hasn't felt in a long time, since he was a kid—or ever. Something good.  
  
_But,_ a voice whispered, _when have you ever deserved something good?_  
  
The voice sounds like Stick—it always does—but this is beyond anything Stick had ever told him.  
  
_Distance yourself,_ Stick had said to him, _relationships are a weakness. You are a warrior. You cannot afford weakness._  
  
But, these new words, not Stick's, but said in Stick's voice, are true enough as well. The Devil lives in Matt, just under his skin, and Matt knows. He knows, can feel the Devil even now, restless and eager. Foggy is purity and light and everything good in the world, and Matt's touch alone would taint him. Matt has done nothing to deserve someone as _perfect_ as Foggy, he—  
  
His thoughts are cut off by a sudden knock on the door, followed by softer, smaller thumps. He realizes he had gotten so lost in his thoughts, he had no longer been listening to the sounds of Foggy and the baby.  
  
"Good job," He hears Foggy murmur quietly. Foggy then raises his voice, "Did you drown in there?"  
  
"Sorry," Matt calls, turning the shower off and reaching for his towel. "I'll be right out."  
  
He steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, and nearly runs right into Foggy.  
  
"Sorry," Matt repeats. He winces, still being reprimanded by his dark thoughts, second-guessing everything and criticizing. If Foggy notices, he doesn't say anything. He just shrugs and tells Matt to get dressed, it's his turn to watch the baby so Foggy can get dressed as well.  
  
"She's already been cleaned and dressed," Foggy informs him, "so you just have to keep her occupied while I take a shower."  
  
Matt hums an affirmative on his way to the bedroom, grateful that Foggy cannot hear how fast his heart is pounding.  
  
Once Matt is dressed and has the baby in his arms, he begins to calm down. He focuses on her heartbeat, her smell, her warmth. He lets her take up every one of his senses, filling him up with _her_ , and feels the remaining traces of dark thoughts fade away, his tenseness melting away.  
  
The baby giggles, throwing her hands up, squealing even happier when her fingers catch on Matt's mouth, tugging his lips painfully. When Matt tries to gently pull her hand away, she starts to quietly whimper, and Matt sighs, giving in. She gurgles happily, drooling on Matt's clean shirt.  
  
"You're lucky you're cute," Matt says with no heat, his words coming out jumbled due to the baby's grip on his lips, pinching them together. The baby sighs contentedly, and Matt rolls his eyes. He walks over to the couch and settles in to wait for Foggy, baby cradled gently against his chest.  
  
Matt listens to the baby babble nonsensically, humming in reply so the baby knows he's listening, as Foggy gets dressed. Foggy leaves the bathroom with his tie undone—Matt can hear the ends brush against Foggy's shirt—and his hair still wet—water drips from the ends, landing on the shoulders of Foggy's suit jacket. Foggy's heart rate is elevated slightly, but Matt easily attributes it to the baby screeching, waving her arms excitedly towards Foggy as soon as she sees him.  
  
"Did you eat?" Foggy asks lightly, easily scooping the baby up from Matt's arms. Matt hesitates, and Foggy huffs, and Matt realizes Foggy _had_ picked up on his dark mood. Matt fidgets, his hands flexing, wishing he hand the baby back in his arms, her warmth pressed against his chest, her heart beating close to his own. "Eat, Matty," Foggy says gently, drawing Matt out of his thoughts, "then we can show this little cutie where we get all our best work done."  


* * *

  
The baby loves the office, loves the attention Karen and Foggy smother her with, loves the way she is not put down once, going from Foggy's arms, to Karen's, to Matt's. Karen hums that this baby is going to be spoiled rotten, and neither Matt nor Foggy disagree.  
  
They sit in the conference room, papers spread out in front of them, for the ease of passing the baby between them. The baby giggles in delight every time she is passed around, smiling a wide, gummy grin. Her fingers tangle in Karen's hair, tugging and squealing; her hands pat Matt's cheeks, fingers shoved against his mouth; her mouth presses against Foggy's collarbone, leaving wet spots on his shirt from her drool.  
  
"Do you have any idea where her parents are?" Karen asks, holding the baby close and making funny faces. The baby laughs and grabs at her.  
  
"No," Matt says quietly, enjoying the content in the air, the happy sounds coming from the baby. "We should call Brett, see if there's been any missing persons reports filed."  
  
"I texted him this morning," Foggy cuts in, leafing through papers, more focused on the baby than his work, "he said nothing had come in, but it had been pretty early. He'll let us know if anything turns up." Foggy abandons his papers to reach across the table, taking the baby from Karen. "Until then," he continues, his voice soft and light, "we get to keep this little angel for ourselves."  
  
Foggy buries his face against the baby's stomach, blowing a raspberry against her onesie, drawing a loud, delighted squeal from the little girl.

“What about Child Services?” Matt asks, because someone has to, and while he hasn’t had the best history with CPS, he does know there are steps they have to take. They can’t just keep her—she’s a _baby_ not a _puppy_.

“Brett has a friend down there, apparently,” Foggy hums, tickling the baby’s stomach, “said he’d put in a good word for us.”  
  
"That's great," Karen says cheerfully, and she sounds like she means it. There's a smile in her voice, and Matt's glad to hear her happy. "You guys will make great daddies, and I will be the best aunt."  
  
Matt freezes. Karen probably didn't mean anything by it, he figures, and Foggy is laughing; nothing more than a joke. But it struck a cord in Matt.  
  
"I'll start looking into Family Law," Foggy hums against the baby's cheek. Matt jolts at the implication, but Foggy continues as if his words held no deeper meaning than the obvious, "let's not get our hopes up, or anything, but it's always good to be prepared."  
  
The baby lets out a joyous laugh, and grabs Foggy's nose.  


* * *

  
Matt slips out that night. His city isn't safe yet, his work isn't done yet.

It's raining again, but Matt doesn't think too much of it. The rain helps him see—cools the fire, and adds more sounds, more feedback for Matt.

Matt's taken down about half a dozen goons, a path of bloody and bruised bodies, and finally started getting answers when his phone started buzzing. It was his burner—he didn't bring his personal phone out with him when he was in the suit.

"I can't believe you went out," Foggy says before Matt has a chance to speak. "You're nowhere near healed, and you have a baby at home."

Matt doesn't reply. He doesn't know if there's any cameras or mics—it might be paranoid, but he didn't have a chance to check, and he can't be too careful, can't let anyone find out about Foggy or the baby.

"She woke up crying," Foggy informs promptly, "it was truly tragic. I hope you're happy."

Matt makes a noise in the back of his throat, and he's not sure what the inflection might be saying, but Foggy seems to understand either way.

"'No, Foggy, not at all', you say?" Foggy hums, and it's that mix of amusement and mild frustration that Foggy only ever seems to use on Matt. "'I'll be home right away, let me just make sure no baddies can follow me'?"  
  
_Unfair._  
  
Matt huffs.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, 'the city needs me, Foggy'," Matt can practically hear Foggy rolling his eyes, "that's great, and I get it, I _do_ , but we need you, too."  
  
Matt lets out a strangled sound. _Low blow_. Foggy knows it, too.  
  
Matt shuts his eyes against the wave of guilt that slams into him. The weight of his sins bear down on his shoulders heavily—he should really go to confession soon, he has been carrying it around for too long. But, this guilt is worse, cuts more deeply than the guilt that comes from sinning. This can't be absolved through penance, a few Hail Marys and an Our Father. This, _this_ guilt sticks to Matt's skin, his heart, his lungs, and he almost wants to laugh. Guilt for his transgressions against Foggy cut deeper than even transgressions against God.  
  
Matt sighs.

"Great! See you soon!" Foggy says, full of false cheer. He hangs up, and Matt sighs again.

He makes sure that no one is following him, and starts heading home.  


* * *

  
It's two weeks into Foggy unofficially moving into Matt's apartment before either of them realize that Foggy has unofficially moved in to Matt's apartment.

They’ve fallen into an easy pattern; they have a routine.

Matt wakes up in the morning to the sound of Foggy's even breathing and the baby making soft sounds in her sleep. He lays there, listening to them, until Foggy gets up, starts the coffee and the baby's bottle. Foggy leaves the baby in her crib—a wooden thing they got at a thrift store; Foggy claimed that it looked like a gentle breeze would be enough to knock it down, but Matt loved it, said it was sturdy, said it was perfect—and when Matt rolls out of bed and pads out into the open living space of his apartment, he's greeted with Foggy quietly humming in the kitchen and the baby awake, quiet and content, waiting for him. Matt cradles her in his arms, gentle and reverent, and Foggy meets him halfway, slipping a bottle of formula into Matt's hand.

It's perfect.

Almost perfect.

Matt longs for Foggy to press a kiss to his cheek, his forehead, his lips, _anything_ , as Foggy slips him the bottle and presses a kiss to the baby's head. Longs for the warmth of Foggy, his touch.

But, the rhythm and comfort and familiarity of the dance every morning is enough to leave Matt content. It's perfect—or, at least, it's prefect enough.

The ease with which they slipped into this routine is the reason why it takes so long for them to realize.

The couch is the reason why Matt finally realizes.

"You've been sleeping on the couch," Matt says, quietly, hushed yet horrified. "For two weeks."

"Yeah," Foggy shrugs. They're sitting on the couch, pressed close as the baby dozes in Foggy's arms. "It's not that bad."

"You could have said something," Matt's brows furrow, " _should_ have said something. There's a lighted billboard right outside my window! This couch isn't that comfortable."

"It's no big deal," Foggy brushes off. He hesitates, then stands, moving to place the baby in her crib. It's late. The lights are off—Matt cannot hear the low, constant buzz they emit when on—because Matt doesn't need it, and the baby doesn't like it, and the living room is illuminated enough by the billboard for Foggy to see.

Which is something Matt _should have thought about_.

"Hey," Foggy's soft voice breaks through Matt's self-flagellation, hand running through Matt's hair. Only once, but gentle. It's enough to pull Matt out of his own thoughts to focus on Foggy, on the sound of his voice, on his warmth in front of Matt. "It's _fine_. I didn't mention it; I'm not complaining."

"You can have the bed."

Foggy snorts, "I'm not kicking you out of your own bed, Murdock."

Matt hesitates. He doesn't want to say _you're always welcome in my bed_ or _this seems long-term, you might as well be comfortable_ because both give too much away, and Matt's used to keeping his cards close to his chest. He licks his lips and bites them, too caught up to catch Foggy's momentary change in breathing, or the hitch in his heartbeat. And, by the time Matt is focused back on Foggy, they've evened out.

Matt always forgets to take into account the fact that Foggy has always been able to see right through him.

"Let's just go to bed," Foggy sighs. He runs a hand through his hair and stands—because of course he was crouching. Either trying to get down to Matt's level, or just not to loom, but either way for Matt's comfort. He sighs, again, and offers a hand out to Matt, which Matt easily takes. "We'll sort this out in the morning, for now, let's just go to bed."

Matt nods, and lets Foggy lead him to his bedroom.

Neither mention how this is out of the norm for them. In all their years of knowing each other, even through the years living together, they have never shared a bed. It had seemed like a line that both were too afraid, too unwilling to cross. Now, though, either they were too tired, or maybe it was just the drawn-out quality of the hesitance, but nothing felt more natural than slipping into bed next to Foggy, having his weight and warmth curled up next to Matt, like a beacon, signaling safety and home.  


* * *

  
The baby gets sick, and it's an awful experience for all involved: the baby is miserable; Matt worries so much, he almost makes _himself_ sick; and Foggy's a _mess_.

She cries through the whole night. Matt can't sleep through the noise, wouldn't be able to sleep even if he could drown it out. Wouldn't be able to sleep when his baby is this miserable. It wouldn't be right. Next to him, Foggy is awake as well. (And they've been sharing the bed ever since that first night, neither of them mentioning it, an unspoken agreement.) They're both pretending to be asleep, turned away from each other and wide awake.

By the time morning comes around, the baby has tired herself out, no longer has the energy to cry. She just lies there in the bed, moving as little as possible. Every so often, she'll let out a pathetic, quiet little whimper, and Matt's heart breaks a little every time he hears it.

"I don't feel right, taking her in like this," Foggy says, sitting at the table, coffee cup in hand. He hasn't taken even a sip yet.  
Matt makes a noncommittal noise, too focused on the baby. She's running hot. Probably has a fever. He tells Foggy.

"We should take her to a doctor," Foggy says, worried. He's already reaching for his cellphone, probably to call in sick.

"We should call Claire," Matt says, turning back to face Foggy, one hand left, comfortingly and gentle, against the baby's cheek. He can't bring himself to stop touching her, and he knows it's for his own benefit rather than hers, but he also can't bring himself to care.

"Okay," Foggy relents easily; he doesn't want to fight Matt over this, too tired, and willing to trust Matt's judgement on this one. Willing to trust Claire. Knowing Claire will make them take her to a doctor if she really needs one.  
Matt hears the tinny sound of ringing from Foggy's phone, then the click that tells him Karen picks up. Foggy tells her they won't be in for work today.

(She's at the apartment in less than an hour.)

Matt's grip on his phone is sweaty and nervous, but Claire promises, with a sigh, to be there as soon as she can and hangs up.

(Karen got there first, but only barely.)

According to Claire, the baby has a low-grade fever. Possibly a cold. Get over-the-counter, baby cold medicine, keep her hydrated, make sure she rests. The usual. But she’ll be fine.

Relief spreads through the room after Claire’s prognosis. She pack sup her things and tells them she has to get back to work, pointedly says that she had to come up with some excuse to use up her break (and then some) early. Matt winces.

 Claire sighs, kisses Matt’s cheek.

 

 

They spend the day fretting, despite Claire’s words, and their previous relief. The baby cries all day, until she’s too tired, too exhausted to cry anymore. Then she just lies there.

Foggy describes how she looks—because Foggy always describes how she looks, whether she’s laughing or crying.

 (“She’s your baby,” he had said quietly one night, explaining it to Matt, even though Matt hadn’t asked, “you should know what she looks like, even if you can’t see her.”

 It was Foggy doing what he always did for Matt, narrating the world for Matt, making it easier for Matt to navigate.)

 “Poor thing,” Karen murmurs, hand lightly stroking the baby’s head.

 “She looks so dejected,” Foggy says quietly into Matt’s shoulder. Matt has the baby in his arms, Karen and Foggy sitting on either side of him. Karen is pressed against Matt’s side, reaching over him to fret over the baby. Foggy’s head is resting against Matt’s shoulder, tired and worried, watching the baby as she sleeps uneasily. “Red from all the crying.”

 “She’ll be okay,” Matt declares, for his own sake as much as Karen and Foggy’s. “Claire said she’d be okay, she just needs to rest.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says softly.  


* * *

   
A couple days later, the baby is as happy as ever, no longer sick, completely unaware of the amount of relief her first giggle had brought.  


* * *

   
"We can't keep calling her 'they baby'," Foggy announces one day, slamming the door shut behind him, bogged down by grocery bags. Matt looks up at him (well, doesn't _look_ because _blind_ , but Matt's found that facing someone who is talking gives the illusion of looking, the illusion of listening) and cocks his head.

They haven't been able to settle on a name. Foggy knows this, keeps suggesting ridiculous names ("We should call her Mary Catherine Claire. Is that too long? Maybe just Mary Catherine." "Foggy, _no_."), but he has a point.

"Do you have any suggestions?" Foggy opens his mouth to reply, dropping the groceries on the table. Loud enough that the baby asleep in Matt's arms stirs a little. Matt hushes her, soothes her, stroking gentle fingers down her arm. She settles. Matt, because he knows Foggy so well, because he knows what Foggy is going to say, cuts Foggy off before he gets a chance to speak. "A _serious_ suggestion."

Foggy huffs.

"All my suggestions _have_ been serious."

"Sure, Foggy," Matt says easily, placating, sarcastic.

Foggy huffs again.

He pulls out his phone.

“We could name her after an angel.”

“ _Foggy_ ,” Matt sighs.

“Forfax is the angel of astronomy,” Foggy hums, “Ramiel is the angel of thunder—it was thundering when you found her, right? Oh! Or— _or!_ Raphael, the angel of healing. You definitely need your very own angel of healing, Matty.”

“Raphael is a boy’s name.”

“Really?” Foggy laughs, “That’s what you focus on?”

Matt shrugs. He tries to keep up his exasperation, but Foggy’s laughter is enough to draw a smile out of Matt.

“We could name her Mattea,” Foggy suggests, a bit more serious, “or Michelle.”

Matt freezes.

“You, you want to name her…” Matt trails off, unable to get the full thought out. Foggy shrugs.

“I doubt _Franklin_ translates well to a girl’s name.”

“Francine, Frances, Francesca,” Matt lists off, pointedly not facing Foggy. Matt feels his ears heating up. “I’ve also found Franklin, as a girl’s name, possibly spelled F-R-A-N-K-L-Y-N-N. Or, Franklina.”

Foggy is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, Matt cannot make out the emotion in his voice.

“See? I was right. Franklin is an awful name.”

Matt chokes on a laugh.

“So, that’s a ‘no’ for Mattea Franklina, then?” Foggy asks lightly, amused.

“Yeah, I think that name’s out of the running,” Matt chuckles. Foggy hums happily, leaning against Matt’s side, running a gentle finger over the baby’s cheek. She coos in her sleep, and Matt smiles softly.

“So,” Foggy says after a moment, “do you have any favorites, or am I going to have to break out a bible to look for more religious figures?”

“Please don’t,” Matt begs. Foggy laughs. The baby stirs in Matt’s arms again, and Matt quickly tries to settle her.

“I can put her in her crib,” Foggy offers.

“No,” Matt says, a little too quickly. “I mean, it’s—it’s fine. She’s fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Matt can hear the incredulity in Foggy’s voice. And his amusement. “Sure. You hold on to that baby, and never let her go. I have to put the groceries away, anyway.” Matt feels the couch shifting as Foggy’s weight lifts from the seat, feels Foggy’s warmth shifting away, hears the brushing of fabric against fabric. “We can still brainstorm names. _Do_ you have any favorites?”

Matt is silent a moment, and the only he’s not fidgeting is the baby asleep in his arms.

“Cadence,” Matt says quietly, the word coming out heavy with meaning. Foggy hums, thinking about it.

“Any particular reason?”

Matt listens to the sounds of Foggy putting away the groceries, trying to figure out the best way to explain it.

“It means ‘beat, _rhythm_ ’; I listen to her breathing, her heartbeat,” he hesitates, “when I want to calm down, when I _need_ to calm down.”

“Hmm,” the sounds of Foggy’s work pauses. “I like it.”

Matt grins, slow and small, but genuine.

“I’ve always been fond of the name ‘Ryan’,” Foggy mentions, going back to his task, “it means ‘little ruler’, which seems to fit.”

Foggy sounds light, humming and happy. Matt loves it, loves _him_.

“Cadence Ryan Murdock-Nelson,” Matt can hear the grin in Foggy’s voice, “beautiful.”

“Nelson-Murdock,” Matt murmurs. Foggy huffs out a laugh.

“Cadence Ryan _Nelson-Murdock,_ ” Foggy corrects, and Matt is glad that he’s faced away from Foggy, that Foggy cannot see the look on his face.

“ _Perfect_.”  


* * *

  
Foggy gets a call during lunch around the third week mark of Matt finding Cadence in the dumpster.

“Hey,” Foggy says, easy as can be; he’s in his office, and Matt’s in his own, but Matt can hear the conversation clearly.

“ _Hey, Foggy_ ,” It’s Brett. “ _There’s no leads, yet, but my friend down at CPS said he’d have to come by your place, make sure it’s up to standards._ ”

“It’s kinda been a while,” Matt can hear the confusion in Foggy’s voice. “Shouldn’t someone’ve come sooner?”

Brett lets out a weak chuckle, “ _Yeah,_ should. _Everyone’s been bogged down after Fisk, running around like a chicken with its head cut off._ ”

“I know what you mean,” Foggy scoffs quietly. Even their tiny firm has had an influx of cases due to the backlash of chaos Fisk brought to the city. There was a small silence, which Foggy broke by rattling off the address of Matt’s apartment with a forced easiness.

“ _This isn’t your address_ ,” Brett says after a moment.

“Nope,” Foggy agrees, “it’s Matt’s.”

Brett doesn’t say anything about it, though there’s a moment of heavy hesitation. Instead, he just says goodbye and hangs up.

 

Matt isn’t an idiot. He knows that the person who put Cadence in the dumpster might not have been her parents. That she might have parents that are worried sick. That there are any number of ways she could’ve ended up in that dumpster, in his arms, in his life.

He knows he has to find out the truth, but in this moment he finds himself desperately hoping he doesn't have to give the baby back. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his jaw, against the small part of him that hopes that it _was_ her parents to abandon her.

The thought alone makes him feel suddenly, violently ill.

 _That's horrible_ , he tells himself, choking back bile. It's not the Devil, Matt knows, and that makes it worse—it's _Matt_ , his selfishness. Not the dark part of him that he tries and tries and tries to suppress, letting go only when he snaps, when the blood-lust is too strong, and Matt is too weak, that hits and hits and _hits_ and grins at the sharp tang of blood in the air, the warm liquid smearing against fists, against skin.

Not the part of him for which he prays for forgiveness.

He bites down on his selfishness, because he doesn't _deserve_ this; deserve _her_ , just like how he doesn't deserve Foggy.

He resolves to find the baby's parents, to find her home, because he may want her, but that doesn't mean she's _his_. And this is what's right, this is what's best for her, this is what he has to do. Has to do what's right, what's best. Has to let her go. Has to protect her. _Has to, has to, has to_.

He works himself up into a panic, clenching his hands into fists so tightly his nails pierce his skin, draw blood, and he only realizes that he’s panicking when Foggy’s gentle hands land on his own, coaxing them out of fists. Foggy's voice is soothing as he promises that they’ll find out what happened, that he can’t promise the future, but that if they find her parents they’ll make sure it's a good home, that the baby will be happy. And if not they’ll take the baby in and do everything they can to protect her. And Foggy leaves for a moment, and Matt’s back to gasping for air, panicked, because he can’t find Foggy past the loud sound of rushing blood in his own ears, but then Foggy’s back, gentle as ever, placing the baby in Matt’s arms. And Matt immediately presses his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent (far more comforting than it should be, far more attached than he should be) and Foggy’s hand is running through Matt’s hair, and his promises are gentle, but realistic, and Matt knows that, either way, they’ll be alright.  


* * *

  
Brett’s friend introduces himself as “Brenden”, and the way Foggy shifts his weight to lean into Matt tells Matt that he’s fighting back a comment. Which makes Matt fight back a sigh and a smile.

Brenden walks around Matt’s apartment, and Foggy and Matt answer his questions as they come up. They had baby-proofed the room when they had gotten the crib, giving into the fact that they were in this for the long haul. The way Foggy says it, dramatically sighing and faux-put-out, has Brenden laughing, and Matt grinning. Cadence, in Matt’s arms, is asleep by the time the tour is done, and Breden makes vague, approving noises.

“Looks good, boys,” Brenden says when they circle back around to the living room. “I’ll be back in a month, but until then, it seems like you two have a pretty good handle on things.”

“Thank you,” Foggy says, and Matt can hear the overwhelming amount of relief in his voice. Brenden must as well, because he chuckles.

“No need to thank me,” he says, “it’s all your hard work to make sure she has a safe environment. I can tell you two love her, and each other, very much. It’s always nice to know the little ones are in such a caring environment.”

“Yeah, well,” Foggy says softly, awkwardly, “she’s kinda become our whole lives. Babies, the newest member of the family, and all that.”

Foggy must smile, because Matt hears Brendon’s heartbeat trip in a way Matt intimately knows means _attraction_. Matt grits his teeth, they way he has every time he’s heard Brenden’s heart respond to Foggy since stepping into the apartment. He focuses on Cadence’s even breathing, slow and even from sleep, and he matches it with his own.

“So, how long have you two been together?” Brenden asks, casually, like it's just another one of the questions listed that he’s required to ask.

“No,” Matt says, too quickly, nervous and twitchy, “I mean, it’s not like that. We’re—we’re just friends.”

The room is stiflingly silent, and Matt can feel two pairs of eyes on him.

“Yeah,” Foggy says slowly, shifting. Matt resolutely keeps his focus on Cadence. “Best friends since college.”

“Ah,” Brenden says, “I see.”

The air is awkward, and Matt excuses himself, running from the situation with the excuse that he has to put Cadence in her crib. The crib had been moved to Matt’s room soon after Foggy had started sharing Matt’s bed, which is something Matt is keenly aware of as he steels past the doorway to lay Cadence down gently. Still, it allows him to hide out in his room while Foggy and Brenden awkwardly say their goodbyes.

“What was that?” Foggy asks, leaning against the doorway of the bedroom.

“It’s not important,” Matt grumbles. He doesn’t have Cadence in his arms to keep his hands busy anymore, and they hang uselessly at his sides. He resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest.

“Something’s up with you, Matt,” Foggy pushes off of the doorframe and takes a step towards Matt, “I’d say that’s pretty important.”  
“I swear, Foggy,” Matt says, “it’s nothing.”

“You’ve been tense since Brenden got here, it’s not nothing.”

“I haven’t been tense, I just—I don’t,” Matt’s at a loss for words. He exhales sharply, “You know I can’t just _not_ hear heartbeats. But, sometimes, I wish I could.”

“Does this have to do with the way Brenden was flirting with me?” Foggy crosses his arms over his chest. Matt’s thoughts stumble.

“F- _flirting_?” Matt splutters, “Why would—what does that—?”

“Yeah, _flirting_ ,” Foggy scoffs, “he laughed at all my lame jokes. All of them, Matty.”

“What—but, why would someone flirting with you make me tense?” Matt asks, voice strained.

Foggy is quiet. Then, he sighs.

“Dunno, Matty,” he says quietly. He turns and walks back into the living room.

Matt stands in the middle of his bedroom, listening to Cadence’s even breathing, listening to Foggy’s racing heart. Unsure, and completely at a loss.  


* * *

   
The first time Cadence sees Matt in his Daredevil outfit, she lets out little whimpers that have Matt rushing to her side, softly cooing reassurances. He quickly scoops her out of Foggy’s arms, gently cradling her against his chest.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, gently, “it’s alright, it’s me, don’t w—“

He’s cut off by a small hand, which is shoved in his mouth.

Foggy is laughing, _howling_.

“S-she totally had you going!” Foggy gasps out. “Oh, man. Your _face_.”

Cadence giggles, the sound muffled against Matt’s chest.

Foggy is doubled over in laughter, and Matt can smell salt in the air. Tears. Foggy is laughing so hard he’s crying.

Matt sighs.

He reaches up, and tries to gently remove Cadence’s hand from his mouth, but she lets out a disgruntled noise, and Matt resigns himself to his fate.

“Why,” he tries to ask, words muffled by the hand in his mouth, “does she have pizza sauce on her hand?”

Foggy can’t answer. He is laughing too hard, clutching his stomach and gasping for air. But he does manage to wave towards the pizza box on the kitchen table.

Matt pulls off his mask, dropping it on the couch. He walks over to the pizza, and one-handedly grabs a slice. Lukewarm. He puts the slice back down.

“I need my mouth back,” Matt says gently, carefully pulling Cadence’s hand from his mouth. She doesn’t protest, but she does make a small noise that has Matt believing that she is pouting petulantly. He presses a kiss to her cheek, and her spit-covered hand happily slaps against his cheek. Matt chuckles, “Missed you, too, angel.”

He sits at the table and eats, carefully keeping his food out of Cadence’s reach as she happily slaps at his neck and chest. Foggy sits across from him, still gasping for air, but calmer now. He tells Matt everything he missed while he was out.  


* * *

  
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The smell of wood and wood polish and incense filled Matt’s senses.

“I have been having sinful thoughts about another man.” It’s a lie. He hasn’t really. It’s not lust with Foggy; the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. It’s not about passions of the flesh, _sex._ He’s been thinking about a family with Foggy, a future with Foggy. But he felt like he had to confess to _something_.

Father Lantom sighs.

Matt wonders, idly, if it’s an even worse sin to lie during confession.

“After everything, surely this isn’t what you’re most concerned about,” Father Lantom says.

“No,” Matt doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not. But, it _is_ something I’m concerned about. Aren’t I supposed to confess _all_ my sins, Father?”

“Do you have any more to confess?”

Matt wonders if he should’ve done this over lattes. It would feel less like something he’s done wrong, and more like seeking guidance.

 _No_. This is something he needs to confess to. To be thinking such things about Foggy, his _best friend_. Even if it’s not lust, it’s something, something he’s not good enough for. Something he doesn’t need guidance for, because he _knows_ it’s wrong.

He licks his lips.

“Wrath.”  


* * *

   
Matt runs.

He has no idea what has come over him, but he does know he needs to _run,_ so he does.

Beaten and bloody. Something is broken. He has no time to stop. He has nowhere to stop.

“Matt, _wait!_ ”

He’s glad he’s still in his suit. He blends into the night, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Not stopping until he’s breathing heavily, somewhere familiar. Somewhere safe.

Foggy’s apartment.

He exhales sharply. The _irony_.

He could go somewhere else. He could go to Claire’s. Probably _should_ go to Claire’s. He’s bleeding, he can smell it, feel it dripping down his skin. Bleeding _a lot_.

He climbs in through the window.

Matt rips off his mask, throws it to the floor. Foggy’s smell has permeated every surface of this apartment, and yet, it still smells faint. Because he hasn’t been back in nearly a month. Has been at _Matt’s_ for nearly a month.

Matt is lucky that the lease isn’t out yet. Lucky that Foggy hasn’t cancelled his contract yet.

 _Now, he might not_.

Matt shakes away the thought.

He staggers over to the bathroom. First-aid kit. He knows Foggy keeps a first-aid kit under the sink.

His fingers shake as he pulls out the plastic box.

A basic kit. Filled with way more than the basics.

Matt pulls out a needle and thread. His hands are _shaking_.

Tremors run through his very being.

 _Shit_.

He bites down on the pain, uses it to focus. _Focus, steady._ He threads the needle, pinches his flesh together, feels his way through the first stitch.

Gritting his teeth, he completes a second, a third, a fourth.

He passes out halfway through the fifth.  


* * *

  
He hears a heartbeat.

 _Claire_.

He can smell her detergent, her shampoo, _her_.

Her heart is racing. She’s alone.

Her hands are steady.

He’s safe.

Matt passes out again.  


* * *

  
Claire is furious, and Matt is exhausted.

He’s used to it.

“How’d you find me?” He slurs. She sighs, and Matt can hear her exasperation, her frustration.

“Foggy called me,” she tugs her gloves off with a sharp sound, “told me you’d be here. He didn’t tell me how he knew, or _why._ ”

Matt struggles to sit up, and Claire easily keeps him down with a hand on his shoulder.

“Care to explain why you went trapezing around with broken bones and while _actively_ _bleeding out_?”

Matt stays stubbornly silent. Claire sighs.

“Fine.” She starts to clean up the area; Matt can hear the crinkle of gauze packaging and the wet sound of antibiotic wipes. Her silence is steely.

“I kissed him,” Matt says softly. Quiet enough, that Claire almost misses it. Pauses in her motions.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know what came over me,” Matt tries to sit up, again, and, again, Claire easily keeps him in place. “Adrenaline, or because he was humming to Cadence, or _what_. All I know is that one moment I was climbing through the window, and the next I was kissing him. And then I had to _run._ ”

Claire sighs.

She finishes cleaning up without a word. She slips on her jacket.

“You have people who care about you, Matt,” Claire says, “it’s not something to run from, and it’s not something you should forget. Remember that, next time you decide to go around bleeding-out and half-dead.”

She gently brushes Matt’s hair from his face, and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead.

She leaves, and Matt is left lying on Foggy’s couch, thoughts swirling.  


* * *

   
Matt wakes up to a familiar weight on his chest. Warm, happy. Tiny hands slapping his chest accompanied by giggles.

His hands move automatically to her, and she grabs one, pulling it to her mouth.

“She wanted to see you.”

“ _Foggy,_ ” Matt breaths. “Foggy, I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” Foggy asks, and Matt hears him closing the door of the fridge. Moving closer. “Running away or scaring Cadence when she couldn’t find you this morning?”

Matt winces. “Sorry,” he repeats.

“No,” Foggy sighs, “no, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“How did you know I was going to be here?”

“I’m your best friend, Matt,” Foggy says, and Matt knows he’s rolling his eyes. “What don’t I know about you?”

Matt stays silent. There’s something. Though it’s not much of a secret anymore. Not after last night.

“C’mon, Matty,” Foggy says gently, sitting on the couch. Matt struggles to sit up, and Foggy helps. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he runs his fingers through Matt’s hair, and leans in. Foggy kisses Matt softly, carefully. There’s no hesitance. He’s treating Matt as if he’s something precious. Matt makes a broken noise, surges forward, tries to turn the kiss into something fiercer. Foggy pulls back with a laugh. Between them, Cadence lets out a small noise. Foggy leans in and kisses her nose, drawing a squealing giggle from the baby.

“Foggy,” Matt whines, because he cannot reach out and grab Foggy. Pull him in for more. There is a baby in his arms, which he’s mildly grateful for, because he’s covered in stitches and bruises. But, still, he wants, “ _more_ , Foggy. Again, please.”

Foggy laughs, and kisses Matt again.

“I love you,” Matt breaths, eyes closed, still lost in the kiss.

“I love you, too,” Foggy chuckles, leaning in to kiss Matt again, chaste this time.

“Really?” Matt says, unsure, unsteady. Just as vulnerable as he had been the night before, bleeding out on the floor.

“Well, duh, you doofus,” Foggy huffs, amused and fond, “of course, I love you. _We adopted a baby together_. I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me since college.”

Matt’s mouth worked, at a loss for words. “I didn’t—I don’t—“

Foggy kisses Matt again, and Matt doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. “I love you, Matty. Have for a while now.”  
  
Matt smiles, slow and wide. “It may have taken a baby to realize it, but I love you, too, Foggy. I love you so much.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Foggy’s hand cups the side of Matt’s jaw, “took you long enough.”

Matt laughs, joyous and unadulterated, into the next kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudos/comment if you liked the fic!
> 
> My [tumblr](http://sp8sexual.tumblr.com/)


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